Here Be Angels
by The-Owlet
Summary: AU: Christine makes a different choice. Rated R for sexual content. COMPLETE: you know, when the site updates with the next 5 chapters (6 chapters total).
1. Default Chapter

DISCLAIMER: Story, characters, and lyrics property of Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and Charles Hart.

I have mucked with details and timing a bit, to fit the purposes of my story. I hope you enjoy it! Reviews are, of course, welcome.

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Just the fact that she was sleeping in his bed set him afire. He had watched her for hours, her delicate face pale against the coverlet, until he could no longer bear not to touch her and his blood was racing. His hands ached for her. He would never sleep again. 

So he wrote. It was often his only comfort, the scratch of pen on paper, whether the whispering long lines of blueprints or the sharp ticks of music. Tonight would be music, of course, music for her, of the song in his heart that was equal parts joy and torment. She would awaken. She would sing for him, with him. Some day, she would love him.

Yet the writing went slowly. His mind kept turning to the book hidden at the bottom of a stack of scores, the one he had stolen from the theater, years ago, that had colored drawings of men and women together. Its lurid text had so confused and thrilled him when he first read it; he had nearly memorized it during the long lonely stretches of time. _Not yet. Maybe not ever._ He would shake his head to clear it, hum the last few shakily written bars, and then, before he knew it, there were the images again from the book or from the couplings he had seen from the shadows. He burned. But Christine was no coarse charwoman to be taken, grunting, on top of a barrel. She was light, his muse and his voice. She deserved better. _Better than me._

A thread of sadness wove itself into the song he wrote. It was a duet for tenor and soprano---no words as of yet, but those would come later, when she was gone and he was alone again. He would find quiet, and the words would come. In the meantime, there was music. The melody took on a life of its own, two voices twining and separating to counterpoint: he could tell it was some of his finest work, and his hand could barely move quickly enough to keep up with the notes running through his head.

Then his face was cold. He looked up and Christine was there, his mask in her hand, her other fist pressed to her mouth and her eyes wide as she backed away from him. All at once everything crumbled, somehow slowly enough that he could feel his dreams slipping away from him. There would be no duet now. There would be no building of trust, no love. She would hate him. The sound of the mask hitting the floor freed him, and he hardly knew the words he said to her, only that they were composed of rage and shame, of heartbreak and fear. He cried out his self-loathing, then damned himself as he dared speak of love and heard the sob in his voice, cursed himself for his weakness. He sank to his knees, not far from her, weak with disappointment. Christine had fallen and was still staring at him, brows knit together. He could not hold her eyes. Looking at the floor, he held his hand out for the mask.

She placed her hand in his.


	2. 2

Her hand was cold, but her fingers squeezed his as she moved toward him on her knees. Erik couldn't move, pinned down by confusion and trying hard not to hope. What could she mean? She was still looking at him. If nothing else, she had not run away.

"Sing to me," she said, close to him now, still holding his hand. He raised his head and her eyes were clear. Had he not been a monster, he'd have said she was looking at him with concern. Was he dreaming? He opened his mouth to obey, but his throat was closed with tears. He shook his head at her, swallowed.

As further proof that he was delusional, she smiled. "Then I'll sing." She cocked her head to one side. "How did it go? … 'Let your mind start a journey through a strange, new world,/leave all thoughts of the world you knew before./Let your soul take you where you long to be …/Only then can you belong to me'." He gaped as she sang his words back to him softly, moving forward again, still smiling. He backed away from her instinctively, sitting hard on the stone, but still she came toward him, until her warm weight settled into his lap. He was afraid to move, afraid to wake up. She leaned back against his arm and reached up to touch his disfigured cheek so softly that he barely felt it.

"Does it hurt?" she asked. Erik had to clear his throat twice to find his voice. "No," he said hoarsely. "Sometimes it itches." Her brows drew together and she stroked his cheek. He shuddered. No one had ever touched his face in kindness. "How can you bear it?" he asked, his eyes closed. Her cool, smooth hand moved across his face to cup his good cheek and turn his face toward her, stroking with her thumb until he opened his eyes. If he'd thought her an angel before, he'd been wrong. She was an angel now. Her dark eyes were so large and liquid, her hair spread out over his arm, the pressure of her against him. That small smile, again, that miracle. "You are my Angel," she said. Before he even realized what she was doing, his neck bent under the pressure of her hand and his mouth was pressed to hers. Her lips were as cool as her fingers. Not knowing what to do, he stayed as still as he could, until he felt her begin to smile. Then he pulled back sharply, expecting mockery. He glared down at her, but her eyes were still soft, and her hand was still cupping his face. "I just thought," she said. "My Angel. What is your name?"

He blinked. He was beginning to suspect that this was not a dream after all. For one thing, it was a lot more lucid than his dreams usually were, and it was verging on cheerful. "Um, Erik," he said. "Erik," she whispered. Then that sweet pressure again, and she was rising to meet him even as he bent to her. He still hardly knew what he was doing, whether it was real or illusion, but, as in all his dreams, he kissed her. Her lips grew warm as his mouth moved over hers, and his arm tightened about her waist. His blood pounded in his ears; it was as if every nerve in his body was tied to his mouth, her taste, and her arms around his neck. And still, on this night of surprises, part of him was stunned to feel her breath catch and quicken, that she kissed him with a fervor to match his own, her sweet tongue meeting his in a silent duet.

Time had no meaning, but eventually she pulled back from him, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright. It was too much air---he leaned into her, but she pressed her hands against his chest and laughed a little. "Angel," she said, "Erik. I've dreamed of this for months … but it's awfully cold here on the floor." He looked at her arm and saw goose bumps running up the length of it. He rubbed her arm briefly, helped her to stand, although he could not believe that his legs would hold him up. She did look cold, shivering in her thin robe. He put his arms around her and she leaned into him, her teeth chattering. "My love," he whispered into her hair. "We must get you warm." He went back to the organ to fetch his cloak from the floor. This feeling in his chest was like not being able to breathe and swinging down from the highest flies all at once, like the first moments of composition and the comfort of a fire in the grate and a mug of tea. _Is this happiness?_ he thought. Yet his arms felt empty without her, his lips felt lost.

But Christine was cold. He swept the cloak up and turned back toward her. He would wrap her warmly, see her safely back to her room. When he returned, the darkness would not seem so lonely. He would write. Perhaps tomorrow, she would meet him and he would take her into his arms again, she would again smile.

She was not standing near the boat. She was in the doorway to his bedroom, looking so small, her arms wrapped around herself. Erik's mind was still boggling over why she would be there as his feet carried him to her and he folded the cloak around her shoulders. She thanked him sweetly, and he caressed her cheek.. Yet there was something almost stubborn in the way she stood before him. He had seen it before, in the early days, when she had insisted that she could not sing his music, that she would not be able to do as he asked. "You don't wish to go?" he asked her, his voice catching at the wonder of it. She raised her chin, her face full of challenge. "I have seen what men and women do together," she said. "I am not afraid."

He was flying and falling at the same time. Erik leaned against the stone of the doorway and groaned aloud. Deep in his belly, heat started to rise. There was no way he could trust himself with this girl.

She stepped into the room and sat on his low bed, still rumpled from her sleeping there such a short time ago. She slipped off her shoes while he stared at her, feeling utterly caught. After a moment, she looked up at him. "I'm cold, Erik," she said. His angel commanded. In an instant he was by her side, pulling her close.

Such sweetness, her kisses, more than he had ever dared think. How could he have known what it would be like? He would not have thought it would be so wet, nor that she would curve her body to his or twine her fingers in his hair. In his dreams, she had always laid still and silent while he pressed his lips to her, but how much more stunning, how much harder his heart pounded in his chest as she sucked his bottom lip, as she wrapped his shirt in her fists and pulled him even closer.

He was dizzy. There was too much and not enough air, and he could not possibly sit upright any longer. He rolled back and onto his side, pulling her with him. This was a whole new level of sensation---not only did she curl her length against him, but she even wrapped her leg over him tightly. She broke their kiss, glancing down to where their hips were pressed together, obviously feeling his hardness. She blushed. Erik started to pull back, but she drew him in again, her small mouth hungry. Each of her movements was the most exquisite torture. He had one hand wrapped in her hair, and the other began to explore her, distracting and delicious---the curve of her back, the soft mounds of her buttocks, her strong dancer's leg, the skin of her thigh nearly as soft as the silk of her stocking. He wanted to touch all of her at once, to taste every inch of her. He bent his head lower, to the warm and fragrant skin of her neck, that bit of skin under her ear that was like swan's down. When he kissed her there, when he ran his tongue into that little hollow, she moaned, she clutched at him, she whispered his name.

He would say prayers of thankfulness for the rest of his days and it would not be enough. Her fingers dug into his shoulder and it was as if his passion for her was too large to be contained within him. His mouth moved down her neck to the elegant planes of her collarbones, his hand moving up the front of her damned stiff corset even as he kissed the tops of her breasts, which he had never once dared to dream about, but she was here, with him, his angel, the scent of greasepaint and roses all about her, his hand lost in the softness of her hair, her fingers curled into the back of his neck, and it was all too much but so good and not like anything could have imagined, could never have known, his Christine, not only here but eager, not an angel at all but a woman, flesh, blood, music, and his.

He had been lost in her, and so it was without warning that he felt himself begin to fall, to shudder and cry out. She wrapped herself even more tightly around him until he collapsed against her, amazed but ashamed. She stroked the back of his head slowly. After a few moments, he found himself again and drew a little away. "Christine," he whispered, miserable. "I'm sorry." She laid still, touched his cheek. Her fingertip followed her eyes down to the front of his trousers, damp and sticky, and then she met his eyes, frowning. "What is this?" she asked. "My Angel, are you all right?"

It would have been easy to speak of shame and weakness, to curse himself, but her quietness gave him strength. All she had given him already made him want to honor her with truth. He didn't know the words for such a thing, save the ones from his book, and those were too coarse for what he felt. He cleared his throat. "It is my---release," he said haltingly. Praise God, she seemed to understand, for he would not have known how to go on. She nodded. "I've wondered about that," she said, blushing a little. Her hand cupped his cheek. "So it is---good, then?" she asked him.

He could only nod at her, her goodness, the miracle that she lay next to him in his very bed without shame or judgment, concerned only for his joy. There was suddenly a point of light in his darkness. Perhaps he would not have to lead her into the dark. Perhaps she would bring him into light. His love broke over him, broke him, and he pulled her close. He tried to hide his tears in her hair. She wrapped those slim arms around him, shushing him, stroking his back and his hair. "I am your slave," he sobbed, and she lifted his face to wipe his face with the soft lace of her robe. She kissed him---left cheek, right cheek, and lips---and smiled. "You are my master and my Angel." Erik rested his face on the pillow next to hers as she continued to stroke his cheek and his breathing slowed. He felt wrung out but also strangely calm, lighter. Unfortunately, he also became aware of just how cold and unpleasant his clothing was. He lifted Christine's hand and kissed her fingertips. "Wait for me," he whispered, and she nodded.


	3. 3

As much as he immediately missed her presence, still it was good to have a few minutes of quiet, to gather himself and to think over these strange, miraculous hours. How long would it last? How long until she would want to return to her world of daylight and people? But he could not make himself brood as he stripped off his clothes and sponged himself clean with freezing water. Somehow he was unable to fret over the future. It seemed too much effort to dress fully---he wanted to return to her. A pair of loose silk trousers and a long velvet robe the color of new blood would do. He felt almost luxurious. He did not realize that he was humming as he walked back through the dim stone corridor to where she waited for him.

Christine was sitting in the middle of the bed, almost entirely hidden in his cloak. His heart sank a little when he saw that she had his mask in her hand. "I'll put it back on, if you like," he said from the doorway, and she jumped, his wild creature, his love. She laughed a little, her hand to her chest. "You startled me!" He sat down and held his hand out for the mask. Her smile faded. "Do you want to wear it?" He frowned. "It has always been a necessity," he said. "Well, it isn't now," she answered, dropping the hated thing onto the floor. "You don't mind?" he asked slowly, wondering how many shocks this night had in store for him. She took his hand in both of his. "When I thought you were an angel sent by my father, I loved you for his sake," she said. "And then, as you taught me, I began to love you for your music. You were strict, but always kind, and there were many days when I felt you were my only friend." Tears like diamonds stood in her eyes. "I used to long then for you to be real, to be flesh and blood and not an angel but an earthly creature like me. And so you are. I love you for your soul, and that makes you beautiful to me, no matter what you look like."

Clearly this could not be believed. He tore his hand away from her and swept up off the bed, turning his back on her. "You did not think so earlier," he said roughly. "Not when you first looked on me." She sighed. "I'm sorry," she said. "I was shocked, surprised, and then you were so angry …" He turned on her, fists clenched at his sides. "And what of your Viscomte?" She put her head to one side and frowned at him. "Raoul?" she said. "Yes, your precious Raoul," he growled. Christine drew herself deeper into his cloak, still frowning at him. He was standing on a knife edge of terror, knowing that it was stupid to bait her but unable to stop himself. "He's not _my_ Viscomte," she said. "Why would you say that? We knew each other as children. He is precious to me only because of that and because he knew my father." Erik stood over her, staring, but starting to crumble inside at his own foolishness. "Why would you fight with me?" she asked him, her eyes again glistening with tears. "Erik, why do you argue when you could be kissing me?" She held her arms out to him, and his anger vanished as quickly as it had come. He fairly ran to her, kissing her fervently. "I don't deserve your goodness," he said as he rained kisses on her cheek. She hugged him tightly. "Deserving doesn't matter. You have my love and my heart."

All of his prayers were being answered at once, as if God had finally noticed him and pulled him out of Hell straight into Heaven. Erik kissed Christine and whispered his apologies until she laughed and begged him to stop. As in all things, he could only obey.

He was kneeling in front of her on the bed, and she leaned away from him, running her hands down the velvet covering his arm. "This is lovely," she said, nuzzling her cheek against the cloth. "I'll never wear anything else," he said. She giggled like the girl she was. "I think that eventually the smell would overcome its beauty." Erik could only blink and smile. She rose up on her knees to kiss him, steadied herself against his bare chest. The touch of her hand made him shiver, and as she drew back she seemed suddenly shy. They knelt quietly before each other for a moment, and Erik was unsure how or whether to go on.

He took Christine's hand and stroked it lightly. She looked tired, his poor angel. She had sung to great triumph, been spirited into darkness, and declared her love to a monster, all with precious little sleep in between. She had been brave and strong for him tonight, had fought for him against his very self. He felt such tenderness for her. She was so young and so small to carry these burdens. _I must try to be better,_ he thought, _for her sake._ She had cradled him, cared for him more times than he knew even in this one night, and he must do the same for her.

"Are you still cold, my beloved?" he asked. She shook her head. He drew her up off the bed and pulled down the coverlet, slipped her robe off her shoulders and made her lie back down again, tucking the blanket over them. Her dark hair spilled beautifully across the white pillow. He lay beside her and ran his fingers through it, combing out tangles and massaging her scalp. She sighed and turned her face toward him, so of course he could not resist the temptation of her mouth.

He would never grow tired of such sweetness. But now, freed from his more frantic passion, he could savor her, could examine and explore her, unravel her deepest desires. His robe quickly started to tangle in the bedding; he shrugged it off and kicked it away. Christine ran her hands over his bare arms and back as he kissed her. Her touch raised goose bumps and made him shiver. "Are you cold now?" she asked, gazing up at him with liquid eyes. "No," he murmured, his voice low. "Never when I am near you. My love for you is like fire." She sighed, simultaneously arching toward him and pulling him close. He covered her mouth with his own, growling in the back of his throat as her hands roamed over his skin.

Before he became overwhelmed again, he pulled away from her, smiling darkly as she leaned in, trying not to break the kiss. Her cheeks were flushed, and she frowned at him a little, charmingly. When she opened her mouth to speak, he laid his fingers across her lips, traced their shape. He wanted to memorize her face by touch, the curve of her cheek in his hand. He drew his fingers lightly down her neck, back and forth across her chest, teasing along the top of her corset. Her breath quickened, and she tossed her head. He thrilled at it, to see her respond to his touch, even as he started to hate the contraption caging her sweet body. He sat up to put both hands to the stiff hooks down the front. Her face was solemn and eager at the same time, but when the last hook was freed she took a great breath and moaned, stretching.

"You have no idea how good it feels to have that off," she said, arching her back to slide the corset from under her and fling it to the floor. Erik could see the sharp creases in her chemise from her tight lacing, and the thought of her skin underneath, lined and red, filled him with tenderness. He laid back down to gather her into his arms and stroke her back gently, smoothing out wrinkles in the thin muslin. She stretched against him like a cat, seeming smaller and more fragile than ever. He kissed her gently, ran his hand down her flank. Half-drunk with desire, he felt he could dare anything. As his lips moved down to her neck, he drew his hand upward, slowly, until he cupped the soft warmth of her breast. She gasped and moved restlessly, making a small noise when his thumb brushed over her nipple.

In the book, men were always squeezing breasts and suckling them, but Christine was so delicate, so tiny and fragile, that this seemed wrong. But he wanted to see her, to touch her, so he lifted his head and struggled with the drawstring at the neck of her gown. When the knot came undone and he drew the fabric down, she wriggled her arms free, earning a kiss for her bravery and another for her audacity. Indeed, her skin was marred by red lines from the corset, and he traced these with his fingers, whispered over them and kissed them. He thought her breasts were beautiful, white shading into deep rose like little puckered buds that seemed to beg for kisses. He could not deny and bent his head to taste them, softly at first and then more eagerly, savoring the texture in his mouth, under his palm, even as she began to move restlessly. He took one nub between thumb and forefinger, squeezing gently, and she hissed his name.

"Is it not good, my love?" he asked her, and she drew him upward. "I never thought," she whispered between kisses, "I did not know that I had such fire inside me." Then she kissed him with her mouth wide, delving into him even as she twisted and fumbled, shoving down the muslin of her chemise and drawers, kicking them away, down into the tangle of the sheets, her stockings pulled off in the process. She was warmer and more soft even than his beloved velvets, twined against him and devouring him. All that separated them was a thin layer of silk, and he could feel his mind clouding again even as his body responded to her.

It would not do. If she would accept him, he would take his pleasure on her, but later. Later. This time was hers. He pushed her gently onto her back, marveling at the beauty of her wide eyes, her lips reddened by their kisses. Each time he gazed on her she seemed ever more angelic. As he drew his fingers down her throat to again cup and stroke her breast, she reached for him, pulling. Perhaps it was wickedness, but he wished to see her caught and powerless under him. He shifted to free his arm and took her two small wrists in his hand, lifting her arms above her head and pinning them there. Her gaze seemed a little frightened and confused, but her kiss was eager.

His other hand moved downward over her tender belly, the jutting curve of her hipbone, stopping when his fingers encountered her tangle of hair. It was more coarse than that on her head, he noted as he teased his fingers through and Christine's breath grew jagged---it was much like the hair between his own legs. Slowly and softly, he moved his fingers lower. He had only the vaguest sense of what he would discover, and he knew that he wanted to look at her, these most secret parts of her body, but not yet. First he would see her this way, as if she were a fine instrument, and he would learn to play her, to bring out her subtle and sublime beauties with his genius and his musician's hands.

It was an amazing progression of textures: two warm mounds of flesh and a smooth valley in the center that seemed draw his fingers down to a bit of hardness that, when he touched it, caused Christine to yelp and jerk. He curled his palm over her and kissed her gently to calm her, feeling a quick, hot pulse in the center of his hand. When he dared move his fingers again, palm still pressed to her, he was surprised by how slick she was, how wet. He pulled his hand up to see---the liquid had no color but a delicious scent, one that seemed to work on his entire body. His lips, his tongue longed for her, and he kissed her deeply as he placed his hand back down on her. This time, as his fingers moved, now more smoothly, over the hard spot, Christine inhaled sharply, but without that cry that seemed on the verge of pain. He pulled back to watch her face as he stroked her, and she looked almost frightened, but she frowned at him as he drew his hand away, purred when he ran the length of his finger over her again.

Then he made a new discovery of delights, for as his finger moved downward, there was more of that sweet slickness and then he dipped actually inside her, a place of muscular warmth---it even felt secret---and as Christine mewed in surprise he realized that this was what he had read of so many times and never understood until this moment. There was no end to the marvels around him. "My love," he whispered, and she sighed. "Please," she said, shifting her hips, and, as he moved his finger back over her, then, "kiss me." So he did, and as he stroked her she began to kiss him more eagerly, to struggle, until his hand was covered with the liquid that came from her. She was almost rough, nipping at his lips with her little teeth, until she jerked her head back and looked at him with startlingly wide eyes, lips parted. Then a long shudder ran through her; her eyes rolled back as she tossed her head and pulled against the hand that pinned her. Her low moan was more beautiful than any aria. When he at last stilled his hand and freed her arms, Christine wrapped herself around him, buried her face in his neck. As she had done, so he for her, his hands gentle on her hair and her back as her panting breath slowed. Soon, he felt her lips against his neck---it made him shiver. She gave a low chuckle, then lifted her head to meet his eyes. "I had no idea," she said. "I never knew." "Yes," he said as she tilted up to kiss him.


	4. 4

Had they merely laid quiet and wrapped around each other, he could have lived out his days there and been perfectly happy. He had known rare moments of joy in his former life, had known the ecstasy of music. Not once before this evening had he known what others meant by happiness. No matter the future, this night he had been truly loved. He kissed her head, the pillow under his cheek dampened by tears of gratitude.

And yet---all the choirs of angels seemed to have chosen him for blessing, as had his Christine. For her hands stirred and began to move over him as he had explored her earlier, though her face was hidden from him again in the curve of his neck. Her left hand, curled from under his head, tangled in his hair while her right moved over his back and shoulders, soft fingertips and sometimes a tickle of nail. He sighed and tightened his hand over the curve of her hip. Their lower bodies were pressed close together---he knew that she could feel him hard against her, as he had been for centuries, it seemed, aching. When her hand found the back of his leg to pull him even closer, just as her lips and tongue moved at the base of his neck, he felt he should die of wanting, and gladly. He could not hold back his groan.

She had become wanton, his angel, in these hours since she had first touched his hand. He had always watched her, ever since he first saw her in that small stone room and she seemed to be the saddest, most beautiful child he had ever seen, singing a lullaby to herself in a voice that was rough and untrained but of unbearable sweetness. He had seen her grow into a solitary and melancholy young woman, always at the fringe of the ballet corps, preferring to wander the empty theater rather than lie about in the dormitory and gossip with the other ballet rats. She never took part in the giggly evenings of hair-braiding or the frequent and short-lived flirtations between the dormitory and the stable lofts. She shrank from the casual physicality of the other girls---he knew they thought her cold and haughty, except for Giry's brat, when he knew her to be shy and desperately lonely.

So who was this naked creature in his bed? She was a very angel of passion, and his breath caught in his throat as her hands moved to the waist of his trousers. "Christine," he said in a broken voice. She looked up at him, those gorgeous eyes shining. "This is my choice," she said. "You are my choice."

And then there was no room for thought, only love and desire burning through him in one harmony, her taste and scent, the gentleness of her hands on him, the only hands to ever touch him so. The silk of his trousers became their enemy as she fumbled with the buttons and his legs got tangled up in the fabric when he tried to kick it away. But then her two hands were wrapped around him, and she said, "Oh," even as he groaned through clenched teeth.

He rolled atop her, her precious length beneath him and those hands now moving over him. The candles had been guttering out one by one, and he could see little more of her than contrast of skin and hair, the faint shine of her eyes. It was the very height of beauty. "Are you certain?" he asked. Deliberately she placed her hand against the broken side of his face. "Yes, my Angel," she said. "Yes."

The Phantom of the Paris Opera had always been a weak and miserable monster, but he found a new strength of will within himself to enter her slowly, listening hard for any sounds from her that might be pain. It was unlike his most fervent and secret dreams, to be enveloped so in wet heat. Christine shifted under him, and her movement added a dizzying layer of sensation. His hands were nothing to this. Fractionally he moved further, and when he was pressed against a soft barrier, he couldn't stop his grimace. This had been written of gleefully, and it seemed to be about blood and pain for the girls in the stories. He held his hips still and bent to kiss her, to wrap his hand over the top of her head. "My dove, if I go further I will hurt you," he whispered. "Shall I stop?" He felt her shake her head. "I know it," she said. "And I know that it's only this once." She curled her fingers over his shoulders, digging in a little, and they were both trembling. "I want," she said in a shaky voice, "Erik, give yourself to me."

And so, swiftly, he did. crying out as he was fully sheathed in her and those secret muscles clenched around him, sending a shudder through his body. Christine hissed and whimpered a little, and so he again held still inside her, smoothing her hair away from her face, murmuring over and kissing away the tear that he felt rolling down her temple. "I'm sorry," he whispered, with kisses, into her ear, torn in half between concern for her and the overwhelming pleasure of being atop and inside her.

All in all, it was not very long before she shifted under him and her arms went around his waist. "Not too bad?" he asked. "No," she said, sounding a little surprised. "And now I feel as if … I don't know." She was still moving restlessly under him---he gritted his teeth at the torment of it---and one foot stroked his calf. "It's not enough," she said after a moment. "I want you to move."

So he must, finally and with great relief, for his flesh knew what it wanted, and it had taken all his strength to be still. That damned book was wrong, but nothing could have prepared him for it, to feel such pleasure that it was almost painful, utterly vulnerable and yet secure. He was almost glad that it was now too dark to see her; he was already nearly overcome by his other senses, her scent, the taste of her mouth, the small sounds she made in her throat, and the miracle of her flesh pressed against and around his own.

This was not his darkness of shame and fear. This was a different sort, a warm darkness, full of secrets kept because of their joy, not their danger. She had transformed his world for him, his sweet muse, his angel. Too soon he was past return and thrust into her with a feeling like splitting into thousands of shards of light, a brittle mirror broken and leaving behind it only this new, safe dark into which he gave a long, sobbing cry and felt himself wrapped in a pair of slim arms and strong legs, lips pressed to his cheek.

There was never such bliss as lying spent with his angel's head on his shoulder, her arm across his chest. He wanted to stay awake, to savor each instant of it, but the strange comfort, the unaccustomed peace pulled him gently into sleep.


	5. 5

Waking brought a new miracle. She was still with him; it had not been a dream. She was awake, her fingers moving slowly over his face. When he stirred, she raised herself up and kissed him. "My beloved," he said, wrapping his arms around her and feeling that his very soul was a song of thankfulness. "Angel," she whispered. Then she laughed softly. "I've been awake for ages! But I don't know where to find the light."

In the pitch black of his caves, Erik did usually try to keep a candle burning all night, but of course he knew his lair in the dark. He stepped on the velvet robe as he rolled out of bed and swept it up onto himself in the chill. Five steps to a table with candlesticks on it, candles and matches in the drawer. It was the work of a moment to give her light. He turned, and there she was, curled up with only one eye peeking out. He realized that he would have to design a new set of dreams for himself and that he did not know how there could be more joy than in that moment.

He had assumed that she would soon ask to be led back up to the theater, but it was not so. They were shy and quiet with one another for a little while, until Christine announced that she was hungry. Then it was giggling work for her to burrow down in the bedding to find her chemise and stockings, and he showed her the little screened-off cave where the water was cleanest; she was visibly dismayed at the lack of hot water, and he made a note to design a way to get warm baths for her. When then met back in the corridor, him dressed and her shivering, he was glad to have thought to keep the velvet robe out for her, to wrap her in it snugly and turn back the sleeves.

Aside from the cold, she seemed delighted by his life underground. In the alcove where he cooked his meals, she clapped her hands over the eggs nestled in little shelves kept cool just above the cold stream that ran everywhere through the caverns and also over the odd-looking stove he had built.

"But where does it come from?" He shrugged, really very interested in the bacon sizzling in front of him. "Some of it I take from the theater; some Giry brings me. When I have to, I will go out to the markets before dawn." When she didn't answer, he glanced up to see her frowning. "You cannot steal from the theater anymore," she said. "It's my theater." She frowned even more. "Don't be silly, Erik." "I'm not. It's my theater. Do you think all these caverns connect to the building above by accident? I designed most of it. I built the doors, the docks, and most of the upper corridors with my own hands. It's my theater."

He could honestly say that no one had ever stamped her foot at him before, as Christine did. "I don't care if you built every stone. Stealing is a sin." She laid a hand on his arm. "Promise me that you will stop?" Everything else had changed---why not this? He kissed her hand. "For you, my angel, I promise." Her smile and her kiss were reward enough to make any promise worthwhile. She too seemed entranced by the smell of breakfast, and he could not think of a time when he had felt so at ease. "Can you cook?" he asked her, and she shook her head. "I'm practically useless. I can sing, and dance a little, sew ribbons on toe shoes, and make tea." Erik hugged her. "Hardly useless, gorgeous creature, " he said, running his tongue up the outside of her ear so that she purred. He was tempted to sweep her into his arms and carry her back to bed, but instead he pulled away from her and felt the unfamiliar movement of his face into what he thought was a smile. "In fact, you can make the tea." He took great pleasure in watching her as she scurried about, crouching in front of the grate as she waited for the water to boil. _I really will have to warm it up down here._

"Erik," she said after a few moments, still holding her hands over the warm grate. "If you helped build the theater, how old are you?" It was a question with no satisfactory answer. "Somewhere between 35 and 40, I think," he told her. "You don't know?" He shook his head. "When is your birthday?" "That I don't know." She turned to face him fully. "My poor angel," she said. "I cannot imagine what your life has been." There might have been more, but the water boiled and she busied herself with tea. Living alone for so long, he only had one set of dishes, so they sat on the floor by the grate and he fed her as if she was a little bird. At one point he thought to ask her age. "I'm just 18," she said. "And had I known you were a man and not a creature of spirit, I should've asked you for a birthday present." This wondrous girl, his love. "Anything. Name it." She smiled at him. "I want a kiss," she said, which she promptly got. "And more breakfast."

There had never been another day like it. He prowled the caverns as he often did, but this time holding Christine's hand. He had forgotten much of what he had collected over the years, and so he felt he was discovering everything along with her, even as she laughed at his untidiness and the strange assortment of props, set pieces, costumes, inventions, and architectural models. Erik did not think that he had ever heard her really laugh before---certainly not in front of (much less at) him, when she thought he was not mortal and her adoration was mostly awe tinged with fear.

And when they were tired of walking, he fed her again, again made love to her, this time tasting her with a deep thrill, his heart soaring at the sounds of her pleasure. It had been unthinkable, before, that there could ever be such a thing as a second time, much less that it could be better. He did not even know who he was---an infant heart in a man's body, perhaps, beginning life anew.

Without his constant lurking through the theater, neither of them had any idea of how time was passing. So it may have been a day or 3 until Christine asked him to take her above ground. She had found a tall stool in one of the caves and had taken to carrying it around with her; she was perched on this beside him as they were humming their way through some of his compositions. He had been gladly surprised to discover that she could read music---better than text, even---her father having taught her. She stopped in mid-bar to pick at a grubby spot on her stocking, then sighed. "I've got to go back up, Erik, to get my things." He thought that he must have misheard. "To get your things?" In that pretty way she had, she tilted her head to one side. "Yes." "Not to stay?" She frowned darkly. "Why would I stay up there?" He stammered. "But---your career. And your friends. I never thought---surely you cannot mean to live down here with me!" Her eyes grew very wide, tears standing in them. "You don't want me to?" "Good God!" he said, taking her hand, wanting to shake himself. "Beloved, I assumed you would not _want_ to stay down here." She shook her head impatiently, wiping her eyes with her free hand. "I thought you understood," she said after a moment. "I didn't choose to simply throw myself at you and then go back to the way things were. I choose you, my Angel. I want to be where you are, even if it is cold and really very damp." His heart was too full for words. He could only hold her and shower her smile with kisses, thanking Heaven with each breath.

Then came another blessing, although smaller: for a time, they could not find his mask. He had others, but that was the most comfortable---it had gotten kicked under the bed, and it felt strange and cold on his face. "My Phantom," she said, and it was another minute's work to discover the best angle for kissing around the leather.

So they crept back up the corridors, this time taking a more direct route that lacked the mirrors and candle tricks that he had set up to bewitch her. _And succeeded,_ he thought, a little smug. It was daytime, and the theater was mostly deserted. Christine's dressing room was in disarray; clearly someone had been searching for her. There was very little from that room that she wanted, and it made a small, tidy bundle. While she went to the dormitory, he stood in the hallway outside her door, watching her figure disappear into the gloom.

It was a measure of how much he had already changed that the blow took him by surprise. One minute he had been looking at his fingertips, thinking of how she had sat atop him that morning, her surprised face, her obvious pleasure, the large bruise she had left on his neck with her little mouth. So when he was struck across the shoulder, he staggered sideways, and then the tip of Giry's cane pressed against his throat and she was spitting like a cat. "What have you done with her, you devil? As God is my witness, if you have harmed her, that is the end of it! I will bring the police and the entire theater down on you, and La Guillotine will have your ugly head!"

In the instant before he could recover, he heard Christine cry out, and then she was pulling on Giry's arm, sobbing. Next Giry was sobbing and hugging her, then Christine was hugging him, and he pulled the two crying women into the dressing room and shut the door before they did in fact bring the whole theater running. He fetched Christine's slightly larger bundle from the hallway, and when he returned the women were both calmer, sitting close together on the divan and busy with handkerchiefs.

It took some doing on Christine's part to convince Giry of her decision, even as she was clearly gratified by the woman's care. Erik wisely kept his mouth shut. He would have taken less time, simply scaring Giry into silence, but he realized later that Christine's conviction would ensure that silence lasted. Still, in the end, Giry blessed them both, charged him very sternly to take care of Christine, and told him that she would continue to run his errands as needed. Christine looked curious at that but did not ask.

At last they stepped back into the tunnels. Giry had said that the theater had been in an uproar over her disappearance, that the police had been called in, and that tickets were selling faster than ever. Christine was surprised by everyone's concern and seemed to be glad to be escaping the excitement. She had put on warmer clothes and brought her cloak. He thought she looked lovely in blue and told her so. She was even more charming when she blushed.


	6. 6

So she settled in to his strange, underground life. He was writing much more than usual, given that he was no longer skulking around trying to catch of glimpse of Christine. He took much joy in being able to look up and see her or to follow the sound of her singing to wherever she was, to creep up behind her and kiss the back of her neck. And, for the first time in his life, he was content to be still, lounging about watching her. She had a mania about his messes and seemed determined to conquer more than a decade's worth of haphazard collecting. Already in a small back cave there was a pile of old candle drippings nearly up to his knee.

The day after their adventure upstairs, Christine came to him with her toe shoes in her hand and a determined jut to her chin. "I'm taking over a room, Erik," she said in a firm little voice that made him want to laugh. "I'm going to practice my ballet exercises, and I don't want you to watch me." It was cruelty. "But I've seen you dance a hundred times," he protested. "That was in a whole group of girls! You mustn't, Erik. You know I'm a terrible dancer." "Not terrible," he said, but she would not let him interrupt. "All right, maybe not terrible, but you know I'm not very good." As much as he had loved to watch her dance, he would not lie to her. He merely nodded. "So it would make me feel shy if you were to watch me." She kissed him lightly. Then, as she left, she turned her head back over her shoulder, "And if you promise me, then perhaps later I shall need help washing my hair." It was worth promising.

In many ways, things were easier. Unlike Giry, who had to be bullied into helping him, Christine happily crept up out of the labyrinth to walk through Paris, shopping and gawking at all the sites she hadn't seen during her lonely years cloistered in the Opera. Many nights they sat together in a large chair in front of the fire, and he would comb her hair with his fingers while she sat in his lap and told him about the sights and interesting faces she had seen during the day. He found that many of these stories turned into music---he would go to sleep with the images in his head, and by morning they would have transformed themselves into notes.

Her interest piqued his, so there were a few evenings that they went out together, simply to walk arm in arm and look around them. Once he crept out very early in the morning and bought all the roses his arms could hold, scattering them around her on the bed so that she awoke in a garden. It was a much more comfortable life than he had ever known---there was no more lurking in shadows all day with his mask making his face itch. There were no more sleepless nights of agony over his loneliness. Christine even made him eat regularly, so he had to take up fencing again, because he was afraid of becoming quite fat. Christine exercised a prerogative of being entirely unfair and watched him fence, sitting wide-eyed on her stool, until her curiosity won and she begged him to teach her. She had found a lightweight prop sword that suited her, and with her dancer's strength and grace, she learned quickly.

Still, it was obvious to him that she was miserable in the cold. There was no way he could think up to actually warm the corridors save by building a steam engine, which would alert the world to them immediately. He hung heavy draperies for her in front of the room with the stove in it, so it was often much warmer. She made him teach her to cook, which he suspected was mostly an excuse to stand close to the stove. It worried him, and to see her after a bath in the cold stream, huddled shivering as close to the grate as she could get without scorching her clothes, troubled him.

So there was an undercurrent of discontent in their days together, amid the kisses and the music, the sweet whisper of flesh on flesh in the dark. They were singing at the organ one day when she laid a hand on his arm and asked whether they would live there forever. His hands rested lightly on the keys while he thought. "I have never considered anything else," he said. "For me, to come here and have a place where I could be master of my own fate---it was all I wanted." He turned to her, dear thing, huddled on her little stool. "Where could we go?" "Somewhere warm," she said plaintively, staring sadly at the floor. It hurt his heart to look at her. He put his arms around her, cradling her close. "Dearest," he said. She reached up to touch his face, his miraculous love, who did not mind his ugliness, loved him despite it. "I'm sorry," she said. "I want to be here with you, my Angel." And it was great comfort to hold her, that she kissed his protests away, but he still worried. It was even worse the next day, when she came to him with a handful of coins---sou and pitifully few francs---saying, "This is all the money I have, Erik. Can it help?" He was utterly ashamed of himself. There had never been such a sweet and good girl. "My dearest love," he said, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry. For a moment, he could not speak, his heart in his throat. "Christine. Is there no end to your goodness?" She smiled at him a little, her hand still held out. All he could do was lift her up and spin around with her in his arms, rain kisses on her cheeks. After a time, she laughed. He overflowed with love for her.

Though she still looked at him quizzically, he would not say any more until they were tucked into their chair by the fire and she had a blanket over her legs. His angel. Who would have thought it? That he would have a love of his own. Her face in the firelight was everything beautiful to his eyes. "Now will you tell me what that was about?" she asked, and Erik realized that he had been staring at her, smiling, for he knew not how long. "You are the sweetest creature ever to live," he said, and she wriggled with frustration. "And you know," he said in a much lower voice, "if you continue that, it will be another _very_ long while before I tell you." She immediately went still; it was slightly disappointing.

"Did you think, dearest, that it is because of poverty that I live down here?" She frowned. "I don't know," she said. "Is it?" Erik shook his head. "I have received a salary from the Opera for many years. You never heard of that?" "No. You made them pay you?" "Twenty thousand francs a month." She sat up sharply, moving badly over a sensitive spot, and it was testament to her irritation that she did not notice his wince. "Twenty thousand francs a month! Erik, that's outrageous! How could you even think of it?" He didn't know how to answer that; luckily, she went on. "It was very wicked of you! Poor M. Levefre, who was always so kind to me, and having to give you a prince's allowance every month! No wonder he always seemed so tired." Erik reminded himself never to tell her about the threats and blackmail. "There must be another way for us to live without robbing the Opera blind," she said. "Of course," he agreed, not thinking what that could be but wanting the line of conversation to change before any of his more uncomfortable secrets got out. In time, he would tell them all. Or perhaps he would forget them.

She harrumphed at him, but then leaned back against his arm. Presently, "So, the new managers---you won't make them pay you?" "No, beloved." And then, a little later, "You can't have spent it all, living down here the way you do." At that, he had to chuckle. "No, of course not. I'm sure most of it is lying around down here. I just wanted the control." He could practically hear her thinking. Finally, she turned around until she was perched on his knees, facing him. "But if you have money, Erik, why still live underground?" He stared at her---the question was ridiculous. "Not everyone can look on me with kindness, as you do." "What about your mask?" Really, it was too much. "Christine, I cannot walk about in society wearing a mask. There would be no end to the questions! With either my face or a mask, we would be shunned wherever we go." She nodded, chewing her lower lip in a most beguiling manner. Then her face brightened. "Erik! Do you remember two seasons ago, that man from Prussia---what was his name? The Baron von Müffling?" He thought back two seasons: that was _Benvenuto Cellini---_Carlotta had been particularly dreadful, and---"The man who wore dresses?" "Yes," she said, leaning forward. "We all made terrible fun of him, of course, but I remember hearing that he was quite popular. Don't you see? The rich can get away with anything! Maybe we don't want to live in Paris, but somewhere quiet, maybe, just a little house, and if anyone asks about your mask I'll talk sadly of a childhood accident, and no one will care! You'll wear your lovely clothes and speak in that voice of yours and I will have to become jealous and protect you from the ladies." The she stopped and looked at him slyly. "You'll have to learn better manners, though." This was a turn he had not foreseen. "What's wrong with my manners?" She laughed. "My love," she said, "you are always perfectly gallant to me, of course, but everyone else you order about like cattle. Don't worry," she said, patting his arm. "Happiness is working on you. You are already much less grumpy." As she settled back into his arms, he'd have liked to protest that he wasn't grumpy, but he also knew it would be useless.

It was an outrageous plan, of course, and it would never work. Erik snuck out again in the early morning and commissioned a cobbler to make a fur-lined pair of silk slippers for Christine, so that she would at least be more comfortable if she was going to be stuck with him underground. He noted that the man looked curiously at his mask but asked no questions, even smiling at him after Erik handed over the money. He was very thoughtful as he walked home. When he gave her the slippers several days later, she squealed with delight and put them on immediately. He thought how lovely it would be to shower her with gifts ever day, to spoil her and give her every comfort and luxury.

Of course the date for his salary to be paid had come and gone without his noticing it. He crept up to the small backstage room where it was left and found two letters with the banknotes: one from the managers, begging for their diva back, and one from the boy Viscomte that was by turns pleading and threatening. He tore that one into tiny bits and set them afire. He left behind the note that Christine had watched him write, instructing that no more payment be made. It was difficult to care about the workings of the theatre now---all that was interesting to him lived with him, slept with him in his bed at night.

He thought that he had dismissed her plan as impossible, but he kept thinking about it, especially when Christine went on a money hunt through all of his belongings. He had to laugh with her at some of the stranger places where she found bills---stuffed in drawers and between the pages of books, in teapots, and quite a lot in a little music box with a monkey on top that was one of the very few things he had been able to smuggle with him into and out of the carnival that had caught him when he left Persia. It _was_ rather an impressive pile of money; if they chose wisely, it would keep them comfortably for a handful of years.

In her turning everything upside down, Christine also discovered his book (it had several bills tucked in the pages). He was working on a violin sonata and didn't notice for quite some time that she had gone utterly silent. When he finally turned around to look for her, she was sitting on her stool with her knees drawn up, eyes very wide and cheeks bright red. She looked up. "You know, Erik, had we not already done many of these things, this book would make me cry." At every turn, she surprised him. He had not expected her patient cheerfulness: he had always known her to be melancholy and hesitant. He had imagined that their life together would not be quite so normal. It left him breathless to think that all her care and comfort were for him---that it was in making a choice to belong to _him_ that transformed her into this bustling little creature rifling through all of his drawers and making him eat three meals every day. He would have to start writing religious music and designing churches to make up for it in whatever small way. Then he laughed, realizing that she was still reading. There was no recourse other than to sweep her into his arms and carry her to bed for a more active examination of what she had learned.

He was getting used to waking up happy---the strangest thing. A lifetime of misery and now this. He almost thought that he might someday forget all of it, the violence and wickedness and pain. He might be her Angel of Music, but she was his angel of healing, of light.

Thinking of light made him want to look at her, so he crawled out of bed to light candles, to bring one close and watch her. Her sweet face was soft in sleep, one curl falling across her nose---he slipped it gently behind her ear. Even though he knew that the cold would wake her, he pushed the coverlet down to her waist, tracing the line of her shoulder and arm. She shivered slightly in her sleep. Erik felt he could look at her forever and always discover some new beauty. He pushed the coverlet down further, running his palm over the warmth and softness of her leg. This beloved girl. He was just about to lean in to kiss her awake when he saw that there was blood on the sheet. After the first night, there had been a little; this was more. He panicked briefly: what if she were not asleep but gravely ill? He shook her roughly---she woke immediately, but her confusion did nothing to comfort him. He could not speak for terror, but Christine looked down and said, "Oh! Have I been down here a month already?" This made no sense at all to him: how could she be so calm? He knew very little of medicine, but he had seen men die terribly, bleeding to death from wounds on the inside. He was still staring even as Christine rolled out of bed, wrapping herself in the red velvet robe. "I'm sorry, love. I'll wash the sheets today." She would do no such thing. She would get back into bed and lie very still, and he would go up to the theater and send for a doctor---the best doctor there was---even if he had to bring that little Chagny into it. Whatever was wrong with her would be cured. It must be cured. Surely God would not torture him with happiness and then take it away from him. He could not bear it if she died. She _couldn't_ die. He would not allow it. He was working himself toward threatening Heaven with all-out war as she walked back into the room. When she saw his face, she knelt beside him and put her arms around him. "What's wrong, my Angel?" He shook himself free of his trance. "Wrong with me? You must lie down." He was pushing her down, but she resisted, and he was babbling about doctors when she laughed. "Oh no, my darling," she said, "Erik, no." She placed a hand on either side of his face and kissed him lightly. "My love," she said. She was blushing. "I'm not ill. I swear it. This just means I'm not pregnant."

Somehow he had not gotten used to his life flying to pieces and re-assorting itself, even though this kept happening. Of course the possibility of a child had never occurred to him, even though he knew perfectly well how it was done. So she was not pregnant: and that was a happy thing, except that it was also sad. But that was ridiculous. He could never father a child. What if it was as monstrous as he was? And even if the child was normal, he remained hideous. But Christine loved him; presumably she would love a child that looked like him. He remembered his agonizing early childhood, the desperate love he had felt for his own mother, even as she refused him and covered his face---he knew that any child he treated with kindness would love him as its mother did.

In the midst of this, even as he was sobbing against Christine's breast, he realized that they would have to leave. She could never carry a child living in these dank caves: to raise a family underground would be cruel. To raise a family. He would have to stop thinking about it and actually take the steps, transform himself from monster to man. Erik raised his face to his angel, his savior, and told her this: for her, he would emerge from darkness. Anywhere she wished to go, he would go too.

Christine bustled about more than ever. They debated over maps for the better part of a day before deciding on Greece. She became quite the little cut-throat, rifling through the caves and taking valuable items to pawnshops, where she apparently haggled so sweetly and stubbornly that the shopkeepers gave her something approaching actual value. She ordered trunks for them, and clothes; she bought tickets for the train that would take them to Marseille and made him write to an English solicitor in Athens who would start looking for a house for them, somewhere near the sea. Erik, too, went out on an errand of his own, but he did not tell her.

Early in the process, she declared that they needed a last name. She refused all of his more gloomy ideas from the Italian. When she finally suggested 'avhållen,' the Swedish word for 'beloved,' he felt his name settle on him like a comforting blanket. Several days later, Christine presented him with a handsome set of handkerchiefs with "EA" embroidered on them. He wept over them.

As soon as they had settled on Greece, Erik had begun reading _The Odyssey_ to her in the evenings. She was so entranced by the story that she made him start teaching her Greek and then to promise to read it to her again in the original. As the date of their departure approached, she quivered with excitement, packing and repacking their trunks, jumping on him for a kiss just as he was rolling up the single copy of an opera he hadn't finished.

Then, at last, the date arrived. Their trunks had been carted off, and a carriage waited to take them to the train station. He was wearing a smaller mask, one which hid only the worst of his deformities, and it sat strangely on his face. Surely that was why he was nervous. Yet his Christine was beside him, her hand on his arm. He turned to look down at her. "Shall we get married, then?" he asked her softly, and the smile on her upturned face was like Heaven. She pulled him down for a kiss. "My love. Are we not married already? My heart, my soul are yours." He smiled and drew the object of his secret errand from his pocket: five rubies as red as heart's blood set in a band of gold. "I thought you might say that." He kissed her hand, then slipped the ring on her finger. "Christine, I love you," he said. His angel smiled at him and led him into the day.


End file.
